


All That Can Be Built With Your Own Two Hands

by noahjz



Category: Saving Hope
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahjz/pseuds/noahjz
Summary: Maggie and Sydney, in little bits and pieces, starting with season 5 and moving through their life in London.





	1. April 2017 (2)

**Author's Note:**

> I have too many things to learn, too many books to read, my own book to write, and I haven't done fanfiction in about four years, but here I am. I'll post a chapter a day until I run out of chapters. I've only seen the Maggie and Sydney parts of the show, and a few random re-runs, so it's likely I've accidentally taken a few liberties with Maggie's background/back story as well as the personalities/back stories of other Saving Hope characters like Alex and Zach. The chapters will be posted in the order that I write them, which isn't necessarily chronological, but I will put dates on all of them so you know where you are in time. Feedback, prompts, and suggestions are always appreciated. Hope you enjoy.

It is strange to wake up next to someone, still. You have spent a little over a month with Maggie (37 days, to be accurate), and half the time you wake up disoriented and sleep-panicked, wondering what's brushing against your leg. It takes some getting used to – seemingly less so for Maggie, who has done this before with other people. That doesn't bother you nearly as much as you'd thought it would, that Maggie has had other partners. You both had lives before each other, and that makes it sweeter that you've found each other now, after trying and failing to do without.

  
But.

  
Pink light is breaking through the Toronto skyline, weaving its way into the hotel room. It had been too late to go home last night – not that either of you really had anywhere to go, having danced out of leases sometime last week – so Maggie had suggested one of the airport hotels, close and comfortable. It hadn't taken much to get you to agree, just that little quirk of her eyebrow. That's always been your weakness with her (well, the biggest one), and you're sure that if she figures that out you will cease to have any control over your own life. Now though her eyebrows are relaxed, eyes closed, still asleep. You're sort of flattered that she's out so heavily, that you managed to tire her out so thoroughly last night. You'd started kissing her in the airport, and it hadn't really stopped until you'd both collapsed, breathless, on top of the sheets long after today had become tomorrow.

  
None of this seems real, not yet. Maggie, tucked up against you, with her hair mussed and wild, naked and warm. She has a slight smile on her face even while sleeping, and that is one of your favorite things about her. Your hair flows in rivers across her chest, your hands gentle on her stomach. Her face is turned slightly toward you so her nose is tickling the top of your head. It is peaceful and calm, and you are amazed that you can feel this at ease, naked, with another person. Though it's always been this way with her, since the first time that started in the on-call room years ago. You had finished at her apartment, spent hours touching and talking until...well, you were still engaged, back then.

  
Maggie stirs, just slightly, the start of her routine to wake up. She is a master, you have learned, at maintaining that gentle stage of sleep, just aware enough to feel warmth and comfort but not truly cognizant. So you let her linger there for awhile, fingers moving through her hair that has tangled a mess across the pillows. Always expressive, Maggie goes through so many facial tics in this state as her body tries to react to everything going on around her without her mind able to process any of it. You are naturally an earlier riser – you've seen Maggie sleep until one in the afternoon when given the chance – but this would be worth getting up for on its own. Maggie isn't peaceful in sleep – that is, she isn't still. She twitches and moves and goes through sets of tiny smiles, all in cycles, all through the night.

  
It is extremely endearing.

  
A little more movement, and you can tell that she will be up soon. You place a kiss on her chest, shift your head to a little higher on her shoulder. Maggie's legs kick at yours, her arms stretching as she yawns her way into the morning. She blinks, rubs her eyes, and then – she realizes where she is, that you are here, and a smile spreads wide across her face.

  
She kisses you, hand soft on your cheek, long and sweet. “Good morning.”


	2. November 2017

You are lazing, quite a bit buzzed, on the couch waiting for Sydney to come out of the bathroom. One of your friends from school – Mack, another foreign doctor stuck in the same situation as you – had invited you and Sydney out with his friends at their favorite pub, just down the street from your apartment. Neither you nor Sydney has any obligations tomorrow, so you'd gotten a little drunker than you've been in awhile. Not too bad – you could walk home without Sydney's help (but of course you'd leaned on her anyway).

Sydney comes out of the bathroom in an old T-shirt of yours and fuzzy pajama pants, her glasses on her nose. “Did you pick a movie, Maggie?”

She doesn't wear her glasses much, usually not taking her contacts out until right before bed; you rarely see her in them anymore. “Do you ever miss who you were?”

“What?” She comes to sit on the couch, lifting up your legs to put them on her lap.

“You changed so much. When you came back from Israel.” You must be drunker than you thought, because you never talk about this. It's not a taboo subject, exactly, just – you don't talk about it. “I wonder if you miss parts of who you were.”

To her credit, she seriously contemplates the question instead of laughing it off; you love this woman. “I don't know. I miss the community, of course, but that's not really what you mean, is it?”

“I never see you with your glasses on,” you say. “You look cute in them.”

She laughs, pushing them further up her nose. “Have you ever had a life change so big that you felt like you had to mark it somehow?”

“When my parents got a divorce I cut the hair off of all my Barbies.”

“The adult version of that,” she says. “I just...I felt so many different things, so much was new, I couldn't keep looking the way I did, you know? Like I had to make some kind of visible representation of everything that was going on inside me, that no one could see. Because I wanted people to see. I guess I still do.” She pauses and takes your hand, looking right into your eyes. “You always saw. Even, in some ways, before I did.”

You pull her hand closer and kiss her palm. “Do you feel like that anymore?”

“Not so much.” She turns her head to the red walls of your living room, the framed photos of the two of you on the mantel, the television still framed with garland from last Christmas, the Chinese blessing from one of your aunts, the Israeli flag by the window. “I'm settled. _We're_ settled. But I am this person now, I guess.”

“Maybe you should wear the glasses more,” you say, “a long skirt or two. But don't change the shirts. They always make your boobs look great.” This earns you a slap on the thigh, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

 


	3. January 2018

It is just after midnight when you get home after a double shift. Being a paramedic is more excitement than you've had in a long time but it comes with its fair share of frustrations – you're only technically allowed to do things that paramedics are allowed to do, because you're not _technically_ a doctor in this country, so you hate having to sit back and watch your patient be in pain because you're legally not allowed to administer anything else. Several times you've considered quitting and taking a job in a flower shop or plant nursery until you're licensed to practice again. Your friend Mack, an American stuck in the same situation as you, opted for a non-medical job – he fixes motorcycles in a questionable little garage on the east side of the city. It's close to one of the ambulance depots, and if you finish there you'll buy him a hoagie and listen to him walk you through fixing a motorcycle.

Sydney is still up, feet propped up on the coffee table with her laptop glowing. She has a glass of chocolate milk in one hand and murmurs a distracted “hey” as you take off your coat.

“Trying to find us a house?” You've been discussing off-and-on the possibility by renting a house outside the city center once you've finished your “gap year.” With two doctors' incomes you'll be able to afford a nice little two bedroom, probably. Sydney says she doesn't really care where so long as you're outside the city center, but you've been researching which neighborhoods are traditionally Jewish.

“Not exactly,” Sydney says.

You throw yourself rather obnoxiously on the couch, taking up all the space that Sydney isn't. Your head lands next to her thigh and your feet flop over the armrest. “Then what are you doing?”

“I had a bit of a rough day.” She moves one hand from her computer to your hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. It wasn't – my patient was there with her father. Her husband died a few months ago, and her father was sort of commandeering the pregnancy. They were Orthodox. He...reminded me a lot of my dad.”

“So you're dealing with it by...playing online chess?” Sydney has never mentioned anything about chess.

“My dad and I used to play a lot when I was little,” she says. “We stopped when I was in high school. I was taking so many high-level math and science classes there wasn't really time anymore. I haven't felt like playing in years.”

“When Declan and I were in high school we had a band.”

“ _A band_?” She laughs too hard at that.

This is a little insulting. “It wasn't like, a _band_ band. Declan isn't too terrible at guitar, and we both have decent voices from church choir – ”

“You were in _church choir_?”

“I'm starting to think that you think I'm a tone-deaf, rhythm-less loser.”

Sydney leans down to kiss your head. She closes her computer and puts in on the table. You move your head to her lap, letting her massage your scalp. This is one of your favorite ways to be with her, to just lay here like this. “I don't think that. I'm just...struggling to picture you and Declan in choir robes or at a coffee shop crooning Annie Lenox.”

“Annie Lenox? Really, Syd?” She stops playing with your hair. “OK. OK, I'm sorry, don't stop.” She chuckles and goes back to it; you let out a little moan. “We didn't really play that many places, but we weren't _bad_. And we went to church until the divorce – Irish Catholic, you know, more of a community thing for Mom than actually believing it.”

“A lot of the people at my synagogue are like that,” she says. “It seems like half the congregation is only there to make friends and schedule pot lucks. Finding one that's still fairly strictly observant but liberal socially is a challenge.”

You close your eyes, just a little. You have been up for 28 hours. “Do you want to try a new one? We can go this weekend.”

“Maybe.” She is quiet for a minute. “I don't know if I could take going into one I thought was safe only to find out it's not.”

“Is there, like, a gay Jewish league of London or something...?”

“I don't know. But that's a good suggestion, love.”

You hum at that; you love it when Sydney calls you that.

Then she starts scratching your head again, and you can't do anything but fall fast asleep.

 


	4. March 2017

You can't stop your leg from bouncing on the way back to Sydney's. Zach had driven you to Martha's funeral, but of course Sydney has offered to take you home. Well – not home, exactly. _Her_ apartment.

Which you have never been to.

It's...rather daunting.

And it's not like you think anything is going to happen (well _something_ will of course, but not, you know, _everything_ ), it's just that this is Sydney's inner sanctum. The Batcave. Kind of. Your brother loved superheroes growing up. This is big, sort of, mostly because it's been _three years_. Three years of confusion and wondering and general celibacy, all because you were hung up on a _girl_ of all people. Well woman, really. But still. Female...definitely female.

She's just...you look at her, humming to classical music and holding your hand over the center console. There was something in her three years ago that sent your brain on a roller coaster, and you've never felt the need to analyze that you were twenty-nine years old and had no inkling that you might ever want another woman. It's just...her gender paled in comparison to how overwhelmed she made you feel, how strong it all was, how much you wanted her to need you, how much you wanted to need her.

Passion, you see it now.

Quieter and bubbling, you didn't recognize it then. You'd been expecting brash and explosive, the sort of relationship people weren't sure if they envied or pitied. A five second kiss in an on-call room hadn't been the way you'd thought such a romance would come for you, but here you are.

It is perfect.

Except that you're going to her house, and you're _nervous_. You are proper, middle-school dance nervous. Which you're sure is not a particularly flattering look.

“Are you hungry?”

“What?”

Sydney turns to look at you, just briefly, before putting her eyes back on the road. “I asked if you're hungry.”

“Oh. Um. A little.” You shrug.

“There's a deli just down the street from my apartment. We could park, go there?” Her voice is quiet. You're not really sure why.

“Yeah, sounds good.” To cover your nerves you kiss the back of her hand, which seems to go well. You haven't been this nervous maybe ever, maybe when Tucker Williams asked you to the movies in sixth grade, but maybe not even then – because you knew your mom would never let you go. Now, well, there's nothing stopping you.

Theoretically.

Sydney's apartment complex is just north of the city, in Thornhill. When you were in med school you dated a guy who lived out here. He had a house that he shared with three of his friends, and you were always stopping by the bagel shop a block from his house before going to see him. The quiet walks you would take on Saturday mornings were always your favorite – most of the neighborhood was in synagogue, and most of the shops were closed, so it was just the two of you on the streets. It had seemed romantic, back then. And maybe it still does, but – well, it's different.

You're different.

Syd's different.

When the car stops you unbuckle your seat belt, stepping out without looking at Sydney, and if your hands are shaking a little it's only because you aren't wearing a warm enough jacket.

“Maggie.” She's on your side of the car. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” You know you say that too quickly.

She rubs her hands up and down your arms, and you sink back into the car. “Maggie, come on. You've been acting weird since we got in the car.”

“I just...” You bite your lip, thinking. There is so much to say to her, and you aren't sure if it _needs_ to be said, but you _want_ to say it, have been wanting to say it, and that's why you couldn't call her for so long, and – “You remember how I said I was terrified?”

Her mouth turns up, just into half a smirk. “It was only a few hours ago.”

“Right.” You let out a noise somewhere between choking and a chuckle. “I just...here you are, and we're kind of on a date, and I've been waiting for you so long without even realizing that's what I was doing. Waiting, I mean, for you. To come back, to be _here_ , with me, like this, I...this feels like our shot, you know? I have to make it count.”

“Maggie, I told you I don't need a fairy tale. That's never been what we were.” You can't help your breath catch as she steps into your space, legs and hips pressed together. “Maybe it is it's own kind of fairy tale. After everything that's happened to us, you really think I'd give up because, what, you bought me the wrong kind of flowers?”

“It sounds silly when you say it like that.”

She reaches one hand up to cup your cheek. “I'm scared, too. I keep thinking about the dirty dishes I have in the sink, and my coats are all over the living room. It's weird, trying to make a good first impression on someone who's known you for three years.” You put both of your arms loosely around her waist, fiddling with the hem of her jacket. She leans in, just a bit more. “So forget the deli, let's just go back to my apartment, sit amongst my many coats, and order in. How does that sound?”

Instead of a verbal response, you kiss her. Nothing about your relationship has ever seemed complicated when you're kissing her, feeling her hands playing with your hair. Her body is small and fits neatly against yours, warm and soft. She gasps a little when you lick her lips, opening her mouth. She presses harder into you, and you can feel the door handle digging into your side a little but you will stop this for nothing. You put your hands under her shirt, gripping tightly onto her skin.

And this is it, isn't it?

Passion.

You let yourself feel it.

 


	5. June 2017

You should have expected this, really. All morning at work you've been texting Maggie – even doctors have slow days – and the conversation turned to what she's been doing on her day off, and then she had to mention that she'd gone shopping, and you'd had to ask what she'd bought, and she'd had to tell you that she'd gotten a new lacy bra because she knows you like the feel of lace, and you'd had to say that you couldn't wait to see it, and then...well, really you should have expected this. You know her, probably better than anyone, and you should have absolutely foreseen how this chain of events would lead to you receiving a picture of Maggie in said new bra with one strap off her shoulder.

Truly it was preventable.

Completely preventable.

But you didn't think it through and now here you are, confused and turned on at your place of work, feeling like you've got a dirty secret burning a hole in your pocket. Because you are not prepared for this. It bothers you that a picture of your girlfriend's breasts – which you have seen, many times, actually naked – is making you feel so...illicit. Obviously you know what sexting is. You know it exists. Theoretically. You theoretically know it exists. You just...never thought you'd have to turn the theoretical into the practical.

And has Maggie sent other people pictures like this? That she's had sex with nine other people (it took a lot of coaxing to get her to tell you the exact number) doesn't actually bother you – it never has, because that was before you, just like it's never bothered her that she is the only person you've ever had sex with. But that the men that Maggie's been with might have some...photographic reminder of her body, that bothers you. Try as you might to not let it, it does.

To add to that, you're not even sure how you feel about receiving that sort of thing. There was an instant panic the second that image showed up on your screen, and you instinctively went to delete it. Then you'd looked at it again (shamefully), split-second decided to keep it, and shoved your phone into the pocket of your lab coat. Now it's all you can focus on.

Luckily you have no surgeries or new patients, just a few women in for a check-up. You watch them with their doting husbands and all you can wonder is if those doting husbands have ever received pictures of their wives' breasts at work. How does anyone stand it; you're certain that there's a flush on your cheeks and chest all day long.

And – what is Maggie thinking, after sending you a text like that and then getting no reply. That's rude. You're not the sort of person that does that. But then, what do you even reply? It's not like you're going to go into some on-call room or bathroom stall and send her a picture of your bra – for many reasons, not the least of which is that you are wearing a boring gray bra that has been through the wash so many times it's gotten a bit of fuzz. And if you aren't going to send a picture back (which you are emphatically not going to do), what are you supposed to say? “Nice breasts”? Maggie already knows what you think of her breasts. And...

This should not be this confusing. You have sex with Maggie. Pretty much every night you are both at home and awake, you have sex. Sometimes it is intense enough to make you cry, sometimes you spend just as much time laughing as you do actually touching her. It is satisfying, fulfilling, everything you were taught sex should be.

Yet.

In the end you resolve to push the picture and all you confusing thoughts about it out of your head until you get home later, when you will ask Maggie about it like an adult in an adult relationship would do. This proves challenging because by the time you get home, Maggie is already asleep. She is on her side of the bed, but she is holding your pillow. Looking at her you feel much more at peace about this ridiculous sexting thing – it will all be worked out, tomorrow. For now you brush some errant strands of hair behind her ear and kiss her temple.

As you're undressing, you hear her stirring, turning over toward you. The only light in the bedroom is from the outside glow of London, but it is enough to see her smirk. “Hi.”

“Go back to sleep, love, I'll be done in a minute.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Nope. Can't do that. You gotta cuddle with me.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Lin.”

“That's what they tell me...” She is already drifting off again. You climb in quickly, burying yourself in her waiting arms. You tuck yourself against her, chest-to-chest, with her chin on your head.

 

When you open your eyes, Maggie is sitting up, one hand on a book and the other absentmindedly playing with your hair. She is almost never up before you so you linger quietly in the moment before speaking.

“You're up early,” you say.

She snorts. “No, you're up late. It's already past eleven.” You groan – even on days off you hate sleeping late.

When Maggie only chuckles, you realize that she is probably waiting for you to ask about the picture. Still she is wary around you sometimes, conservative with revealing her feelings. She has gotten much better, and you're not even sure that that's what this is – she might have sensed that she made you uncomfortable, and she's waiting for you to be ready to bring it up. Either way – “We have to talk, Maggie.”

She puts down the book. “This is about the picture, isn't it?” As if to reassure you, she sends a smile, but you know her well enough now to see the quiver in it. “I kind of figured it freaked you out a little bit when you didn't respond. I should've asked, especially because you were at work. I'm sorry.”

“Maggie, is this...something you normally do in relationships?” You try not to cringe when you say that, but you're pretty sure you don't accomplish it.

“Honestly?” She shakes her head and lets out a long sigh. “I wish I could say no, but I have. Or, I did, a long time ago. One of my boyfriends in med school, we were very, uh...infatuated with each other, and we sent a few pictures to each other when we were separated for winter break. He wasn't really a boyfriend, more of a hook-up, and when he got a real girlfriend he said he'd deleted the pictures I sent him, and he wanted me to do the same with the ones he sent me. So I did. The whole thing made me realize that I'd be very uncomfortable with him keeping them after we stopped sleeping together, so I never did it again. Until you.”

You'd be lying if you said that that story hadn't made you a little upset. “Why did you send them to me?”

She bites her lip and quirks an eyebrow, and you get the implication – she doesn't think she's going to break up with you. But what she says is, “I feel comfortable with you, I know you'd delete it if I ever asked. And I...wanted to. It's fun, to me.” She shrugs, and she looks...embarrassed. The last thing you want to do is make Maggie feel embarrassed about her sexual desires – you spent your whole life buried in shame about yours.

“It's okay,” you say, “it's okay that you want to send things like that to me. I'm just...not there yet. I'm not exactly Orthodox anymore, but everything I've heard about sex is that it's supposed to be about connection, companionship. And that picture...well, that's just about plain desire. I'm not there yet.”

“Okay.” And you don't know what you did to deserve her, because she kisses the top of your head and pulls you in close, an arm around your shoulder. She is content to sit like this with you, to make sure you understand that she means that she'll wait, that she'll take what you give when you're ready.

But the door has already been opened, so, “Your other relationships have been more...adventurous than this, right?”

“We're not talking leather bodysuits and ball gags, but I've certainly dabbled.” Her smile is so big it stretches to both her cheeks, and you can feel yourself blushing.

“And you're not...bored? With me?”

“Syd, no way.” She says it so quickly there is no room for doubt. “You make me feel...a lot of things I've never felt before, in all kinds of ways. I'm good with that.”

You look for her tell-tale nose twitch, but there's no trace of it. “You wouldn't want to, I don't know, branch out a little more?”

“Only if you do. Look part of the reason sex with you is awesome is because we're both so comfortable. We try to get a little crazy, you get awkward, it stops being fun. Who wants that?”

“Not you, I'm guessing.”

“Definitely not me.” She leans over to kiss you, slipping one hand under your shirt. Her skin is warm against yours. “But.” She moves her hand lower, skirting the waistband of your pajama pants. “If you ever want to handcuff me to the bed, I wouldn't be opposed. Just saying.”

You shiver, both from her touch and the image she just put into your head. “I'll keep that in mind.”


	6. February 2018

“I never really thought you would end up here.”

You and Alex are on round four at a pub down the road from your house.

“In London?”

“I mean, _really_ , with Sydney.” Alex swings her hand around, as though this is a gesture that will mean something to you.

“We're not _with_ Sydney.” This is very obvious to you, because you are drunk, and you always, _always_ want to snuggle with her when you are drunk. “She's at our house. With your children.” She had offered to stay in and watch Luke and Amy while you two caught up. Alex has warmed considerably to Sydney – not that she was ever, like, _hostile_ but maybe just a little, you know, wary.

Alex flicks you behind the ear. “Maggie, I'm talking about how you're in a relationship with her. You're probably gonna marry her.”

“I hope so.” You feel a little hazy, as usual, when you think of a long-term relationship with Sydney. You think about cute little redheaded babies with eyes, climbing the Swiss Alps, probably having a dog that would probably wake you up by slobbering you in your bed. For whatever reason you usually picture your kids (not that you do it _wildly_ often or anything) with Sydney's hair and your facial structure and the eyes, you go back and forth on. Sydney has such lovely eyes – her face isn't very expressive, but her eyes give her away.

“Mags. What're you thinking about?” Alex snorts, and then hiccups. It's very unattractive. “Oh wait, _I know_. It's her.”

“Wait.” She'd said something, to start all this off. “What did you mean? Never thought I'd end up here in London with Sydney?”

Alex puts her hand on yours. It is warm, but it is not Sydney's. “ You remember the first time she left? To go to Cleveland? Which is really weird because, honestly, who goes to Cleveland _on purpose_? Anyway you never cried but you ate like four Ben and Jerry's in a week?”

“I don't want to be reminded of this.”

“I'm just saying, that's when I knew you had really fallen for her, maybe even that she was it for you, and I...didn't want you to.” Alex mumbles the last part, like she's afraid that talking bad about Sydney at all will get you in trouble. Even though you know that the first, like, three years of your interaction was a giant mess. “You'd never even talked about being into girls before –”

“Because I wasn't really,” you say. This is something you've thought about a lot, because you'd spent most of your life owning your sexuality. Your parents were never puritanical or anything, but they didn't exactly encourage the kinds of relationships you chose – fun, playful, full of sex – so you'd had to fight your way through all that yourself. It was a pride thing, that you were a woman who knew what she wanted and had no problems asking for it, nor any problems saying no if it wasn't what she wanted. But... “It's not like I ever thought women were gross or anything. I had the curiosity thing, made out with a few girls in college – ”

“Maggie!” Alex looks somewhere between shock and awe.

“Oh get over it, I'm having sex with one now. A lot. Maybe even tonight.”

“Ew. Just finish your story.”

You shrug and look thoughtfully into your mojito. “Well I mean I liked it alright, but I never cared enough to keep going. Even Sydney I didn't see her and think ' wow she's super hot.' But then she kissed me and it was...the easiest kiss I ever had? Like it was fast but it felt like the kind of kiss you look forward to when you come home from work, you know? Easy. And then I kind of got started on what it would be like to kiss her in other ways, in other _places_ , and I just...wanted to. Girls are sneakier. Boys I know right away. Syd, she just snuck in.” And she did, and still does. Nothing about Sydney is clear to you, even now, after years together – she's like one of those Russian nesting doll things. But it's nice, and exciting, and exactly the way you want your life to go.

“Mmm.” Alex leans back in her chair, tipping it on the two back legs, and you're reminded of the way she used to be when she was younger, before babies, before Charlie, before Joel. She's not too much older than you are, but it's always seemed that way. You and Declan are twins – technically you're seven minutes older – so you've never had someone to look up to or someone to be a model for. Alex has been that for you since you met her, the guiding hand you never had. Even though you sat your boards together she always seemed much further along in her life than you, two big loves in her life and two babies to raise alone. You feel like that gap is shrinking as you get older, like she's slowed down on her life milestones and in the past year you've made a few. You are starting to see the wrinkles and lines in Alex's face, the way she moves just a little bit slower now. But she laughs longer and smiles wider, and it's not that things get worse as you get old, they just change.

“You ready to go home?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Alex says, checking her watch. “I miss my babies.”

You smile at her, heart full, and go up to the bar to close out your tab. Sometimes you think about asking Sydney to move back to Toronto – or at least Canada. It's not that you don't like London, or that you don't have great new friends here, it's just that Zach and Dawn have a baby girl now and you've never met her.

But.

There will be time for all of that, when you and Sydney have finished seeing the world, free to drive across Europe or catch a last-minute plane to Nepal. Sydney has mentioned, a couple times, doing something with Doctors Without Borders. Maybe, you think as you hand the bartender your credit card, the thing that Sydney has done for you, that being with her has done for you, is given you this feeling that time will work out for you, because you have everything in place.

You are so drunk.

Alex walks you home with your arm looped through hers. You don't say much on the way back, because you've known her long enough that you don't have to bother. You feel now that you are blessed with time.

It takes a couple of fumbles for you to open the door, but the sight on the other side stops you in your tracks. Sydney is sitting up on the couch, asleep, with a book in her lap and her glasses halfway down her nose. She's in her pajamas, a blue tanktop and sweatpants from your job at University College. Luke is leaning against her left side, his thumb in his mouth. He's pressed closely to her with his favorite baby blue teddy bear clutched to him. One of Sydney's arms is around his shoulder, her feet stretched out to rest on the coffee table. There are two empty bowls of what looks it was once ice cream. Sydney's hair is down, all swept over the shoulder the Luke isn't leaning on. He is tucked so closely between her and the armrest of the couch.

“You are so gonna have her babies,” Alex whispers.

“Not if she has mine first.”

Alex lets out a snort, which is just loud enough to rouse Sydney. She blinks a lot and shakes her head, but is very gentle with her overall movements, clearly conscious of Luke still sleeping beside her.

“Hey,” she says. “You two look like you had a good time.”

“So do you,” Alex says. “Where's Amy?”

Sydney gestures over her head. “Guest room. She's been asleep since eight or nine, hasn't woken up.”

“Yeah, she's a good baby. I'll just take Luke and we'll go to bed.” Alex walks over to the couch and with practiced ease swoops Luke into her arms without waking him. He adjusts quickly, letting the hand with the teddy bear droop and grabbing her shirt with the other one. “Good night you two.”

You and Sydney both mumble goodbyes to her. She still looks barely awake – if Sydney doesn't keep her sleep schedule, she has a hard time getting started. You offer an unsteady hand to her, and she takes it, kissing you hard.

“You taste like mojitos.”

“I had four of them.”

Sydney laughs and starts toward your room. “C'mon, it's time to go to sleep.”

“You know,” you say as you're changing into pajamas, “having a little kid hanging off you really suits you.”

“Yeah?” She is lying back on the bed, glasses off and snuggled under the covers.

“Yeah.” You join her in bed, climbing over top of her to get to your side instead of walking around. You get a slap on the ass in return, which you _love_ that she casually does things like this now. She latches onto you once you're settled, pulling you into a long, deep kiss that you feel all the way down between your legs. But the world is a little bit spinning when you close your eyes, and sleep is overtaking you as you lay back against the pillows. Sydney adjusts quickly, understanding. She turns on her side with her back facing you, waiting as you wrap yourself around her from behind. You adjust the blankets over you and slide your hand under her shirt. You feel her breathe one deep breath, then it slows and evens. You aren't worried.

With her, there is always more time.

 


	7. July 2018

It is too hot to go to sleep. London doesn't usually get wildly hot in the summer, not as bad as Toronto, but you're in the middle of a heat wave right now. You've never been a good summer sleeper – Declan is the same way, and you spent many summer nights sneaking down to the basement to play LEGO. But now you can't really move, because Sydney has put her entire body half on top of yours, and the blankets are a convoluted mess between you. She is, _of course_ , sleeping peacefully with her head next to yours and hair spreading out every which way. You cut yours back to around shoulder-length a few months after moving, but Sydney has kept hers long.

You are sweating so much you're going to need to shower in the morning.

But.

It's not so bad. You are lying, naked, in bed next to Sydney, also naked. And you obviously wore her out so well that she fell right asleep – usually Sydney likes to talk for a bit after sex, about the future or bizarre, thoughtful rhetorical questions, but tonight she was out with little more than a “good night.” Which is fair, because you'd been working her up for three hours, bringing her to climax over and over again. It had started out just after dinner – not, exactly, in a positive way. You've been kind of avoiding her recently, over the dumbest thing: last week you'd lost your watch somewhere, probably in at the hospital, and spent days looking for it before concluding it was gone for good. When you'd told Sydney, she'd shrugged, kissed you on the cheek, and said “We'll go get you a new one this weekend.”

Which...bothered you a lot.

You'd had that watch for almost five years. You changed necklaces, earrings, sexualities (sort of), shirts, bras, hairstyles, jobs, even _countries_ , but every morning you'd put on that watch. It was your one constant, across an ocean and a head injury and a miscarriage, and you took a comfort in seeing it on your night stand – which itself had changed multiple times in the past five years – every morning when you got ready for the day. You hadn't realized how much until the morning you woke up without it, rubbing your hand over your left wrist all day.

And Sydney just...told you to get over it. Not, like, _exactly_ that, and she hadn't meant it in a mean way, but it bothered you. And you _know_ that Sydney isn't a particularly sentimental person, but you'd expected her to show a little bit more sympathy. But it's, well, about a watch so you can't totally blame her. Even though, as your girlfriend, she should have been able to tell.

Anyway.

You've been avoiding her – not avoiding, precisely, just cold and distant. And she's put up with it, diligently, waiting for you to process, because she knows that's how you are. But it's been three days, and you've not really gotten any better. So at dinner tonight, you guess you must've just mumbled some response, and that had been what it did for Sydney.

She didn't yell at you – Sydney doesn't yell – just shut you down, saying not to bother talking to her until you'd stopped acting so strangely. So you'd told her what the issue was, and she'd been so confused, first by your attachment to the watch, and then by why you wouldn't have just explained to her what it had meant to you.

And then you'd yelled – well, okay, not _yelled_ , just raised your voice a bit. Sydney had gotten up to clean the dishes, leaving you to think. So you'd waited for the water to stop rushing, then went to stand behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“I'm sorry,” you'd said.

“It's okay. I didn't realize it was such a big deal to you. I wish I had.”

“I know, and I know that you don't get that way about things. It's a little dumb; it's just a watch.”

“Hey, if there's anyone who should understand the importance of ritual or objects, it's a Jewish woman.”

You'd chuckled at that.

Then she'd said: “I'll try to be better at asking about those tchotchkes that matter to you. And maybe you could let me know if I'm not taking those kinds of situations seriously enough?”

“Sounds like a plan.” And then you'd started kissing her, down the neck and then back up to her ears. She'd finished washing the dishes but her hands were wet and she hadn't dried the big pot. Her hands gripped hard into the countertop as you pressed into her. Then she'd turned around, pulled you down by your shirt and kissed you, tongue and teeth.

And here you are now, trying to fall asleep after hours of making up.

You think back to your conversation about “speed _shidduch,_ ” all the things about the two of you that were supposed to make you incompatible. But it's wrong – you and Gavin most certainly would have passed, and you would never have lasted in a happy marriage. With him your banter and personalities built on each other – it was a positive experience, but you were always doomed to go in the same direction. With Sydney your personalities bounce off each other, sending you all over the place. It's a challenge with her, and you love working with her, even just going through life with her, for all the little ways she makes you better every day. And you know it's worth it, all these dumb fights you'll have throughout your lives, because you cannot wait to see all of the wonderful things she will become, and all the wonderful things she will make you.

You are going to marry Sydney Katz.

The night is too hot, and you can't kick the blankets off your thighs. London sounds angry with the heat outside, more sirens and squealing tires than usual. Sydney's hair tickles your chin whenever one of you takes a deep breath. Her body is sticky with sweat, and it's just making you hotter. There is still no watch on your night stand.

Someday, somewhere outside and with lots of flowers, you are going to marry Sydney Katz.

 


	8. May 2018

It doesn't start with much – you are riding your bike through London, and you see a flier on a telephone pole for a céilí at the London Irish Center. One of your uncles ran a céilí out in Newfoundland, where most of your mother's family still lives, and it was the highlight of your summer. Sometimes it would be held outdoors under a huge tent, and you would dance and dance with your brother, your cousins – your father may have been Chinese, but he took to céilí dancing exceptionally well. You remember watching him dance with your aunt Eva, because your mother always refused. When your youngest cousin, Mason, was born, you would always offer to take him down to the beach and rock him to sleep in time with the waves and the distant music.

But that's nothing, a passing memory.

On Friday after temple services you both light the Shabbat candles – Sydney is the only one who says the prayer, but you have it memorized by this point. It's just the two of you this week, so Sydney sings Shalom Aleichem and Eishes Chayil quietly while you stand, arm wrapped around her shoulders, watching the world go by beneath your apartment window – your own sort of ritual. Occasionally you join her – you know all the words. You almost always do the kiddush blessing when it's just the two of you, while Sydney is in charge of the challah. Still you don't believe in any of it, but it's nice to share this with Sydney, and you know it means the world to her.

Then, a week later at work, a patient is rushed in – an old woman, who seems to have fallen and seems to only speak Mandarin. There's a page over the hospital system, asking for any doctors available to translate, and the first time it goes through your ears you just shrug it off. Then it comes through again, more urgently, and you realize wait. You know Mandarin, you are fluent – your dad's parents learned English but spoke only Mandarin to you, even now you and Declan use it when your mother is within earshot and you want to talk about something without her hearing. When you were little most of your dad's family lived in Windsor's Chinatown. You spent countless weekends there with cousins and family friends, shouting non-stop Mandarin at each other. Both you and Declan have Chinese middle names, and when you were in Chinatown, that's what everyone called you – Yanmei and Xiaodan. After the divorce you didn't visit downtown Windsor much anymore. Your cousins started calling you by your English names as you got older, and you did the same for them. Now your grandparents are gone, and even your aunt and uncle call you “Maggie.” If you were to go back to Windsor now, to the stores you used to live in as a kid, if they would call you “Yanmei” or “Maggie.” Would you even respond to “Yanmei,” would they even recognize you.

You lay awake in bed that night, thinking. Despite everything that's changed with her faith, Sydney still prays three times a day. You have two sets of everything related to the kitchen. She leaves work early every Friday and celebrates all the High Holy Days. She says that she looks at the Torah as something from God, but that those divine laws were made to bind Jews as a community, that God is putting new things on this earth to be enjoyed and that relying on literal interpretations of a 5000-year-old text might not be the way to go. But she loves the rituals, loves the comfort – she calls it “living history,” a way to connect with a family that can trace itself back through the ages.

You haven't spoken Mandarin in years.

After that you purposefully start taking your lunch breaks at Chinese restaurants, though it takes you a couple of tries before you try speaking in Mandarin. There is a nice one a few blocks over from the hospital run by a family – man, his wife, his brothers. There are two little girls who you see if you come after school is done for the day, and soon they all know your name, and they're slipping you extra dumplings, asking about your job, the news, movies. The mother asks if you are married, and you tell her you have a girlfriend, who is Jewish, and they're all excited by this because their restaurant is kosher (apparently this is fairly common for Chinese restaurants, and you have to chuckle at the universe for that one) and this is how you end up with a dinner invitation to bring your girlfriend to the “best traditional kosher Chinese food she's ever had.”

You aimlessly flip through TV channels while you wait for Sydney to get back from her shift. It has been nice, hanging around the Pai family these last few months, in a way you hadn't really realized you were missing. With the divorce and then your father's death, you've barely seen your extended family on either side since med school. Your mom isolated herself from most of her siblings after the divorce, and you moved to Regina so it was hard to see your dad's family in Windsor. Whenever you and your father were both free on holidays when you lived in Toronto, you'd drive down to see them, but even that lessened over the years.

In the wake of your head injury, you'd come to the conclusion that you weren't sure who you were, what you were fighting for. You'd framed that as a professional and personal identity, with a focus on your romantic future (thanks for that, Sydney), but by that point you hadn't even considered the lack of cultural identity, one that once been so rich. On both sides you are first generation, a child of immigrants. Going through med school, a miscarriage, meeting the love of your life, it's something you forgot.

The door opens, jerking you out of your thoughts. Sydney touches the mezuzah when she walks in, and you know that she will understand. Maybe she'll have a few words of Mandarin, when all is said and done.

“Syd?”

“Yeah?”

She comes behind the couch, throwing her arms over your shoulders and bending down to rest her head on your shoulder.

“How do you feel about Chinese tonight?”

 


	9. May 2017

Maggie is having a phase right now. It started two weeks ago when she brought home some gummy bears from the store. Normally you plan out the meals for the week together and you write down the kosher items necessary, leaving Maggie to decide if she wants anything non-kosher in addition to that. She has her own special cabinet, and at first you couldn't remember which cabinet it was so she put a paper that says “Maggie's Non-Kosher Wonderland,” complete with a smiley face, on it. You've never had the heart to take it down.

But the gummy bears.

She came home while you were reading and eating some popcorn, and immediately attempted to pour some of her gummy bears in one of the blue bowls – and the blue bowls are for dairy only.. Luckily you'd stopped this potential disaster before she got any of the gummies in the bowl. You'd explained to her that gummy bears generally have pork gelatin in them and are therefore extremely _not kosher_ , and she'd shrugged and gotten one of her paper bowls out of her special cabinet. That was that.

Or so you thought.

Now everywhere you go, everything you do – nothing is safe. Maggie has become a kosher machine, asking thought-provoking if bizarre questions about obscure aspects of kashrut.

 

Exhibit A, Monday at dinner when you are eating beef:

“Is pork the only forbidden meat?”

“Any land mammal that has both split hooves, like cow hooves, and chews cud is kosher.”

Silence. “So is a giraffe kosher?”

“...Technically, yes, a giraffe would be kosher.

 

Exhibit B, Tuesday evening at the grocery store:

“Sydney, check this out.”

“What?” You look at what she's holding. “Bacon ranch Pringles? Are you making a joke?”

“No, they're kosher.”

“What?”

“Yeah, 'artificial bacon flavoring.' Isn't it wild?”

“Maggie, put those back.”

 

Exhibit C, later that same evening:

“Why isn't this food dye kosher?”

“It probably has carmine in it.”

“Which is...?”

“It's red dye made from beetles. Can't have insects on a kosher diet.”

“Too bad; gotta get that protein.

 

Exhibit D, Thursday morning before your work while Maggie's trying to mail a letter to her brother:

“What about when you lick envelopes? Does that have to be kosher?”

“I don't know, my parents always stapled or taped envelopes shut to avoid that. But in Israel the glue on the stamps was kosher, so probably.”

“But you're not eating it.”

“If it touches your tongue you have to consider it.” A beat. “Please don't make any comment about that.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

 

Exhibit E, Sunday while Maggie's studying for her PLAB:

“Can you get a pig's heart valve implanted in you if you're kosher?”

“Yes, there's an exception if keeping kosher would endanger your life.”

“That's convenient.”

 

Exhibit F, the following Tuesday while you're cooking dinner together:

“Why did you throw that egg out?”

“It had blood in the yolk; blood is not kosher.”

“Like, at all?”

“Correct. It either has to be removed beforehand, through salting and soaking, or roasting.”

For a moment she doesn't say anything, a _bracha_ if you've ever had one.

She is cutting up the onions, humming under her breath.

Finally, some peace.

Then – “So, okay, blood is a no-go. But there's an exception for all of kashrut for life-threatening situations, right?”

“When would you ever be in a life-threatening situation that involved you drinking blood?”

“What if you were a vampire?”

“Maggie – ”

“Would that even count? Aren't you technically dead as a vampire, so it's not technically life-threatening because you don't have a life anymore? Except medically and legally it's the brain that has to be dead for you to be, well, _dead_ , and most vampires seem to have functioning brains, so – ”

“We are not having this conversation.”

“That's fine, I figured out vampires. Brains are alive, so they're alive – technically life-threatening. Now _zombies_ is where things get really tricky...”

 

It is now Friday and you have had two blessed days of quiet, but you are absolutely dreading what are sure to be Maggie's questions about the Shabbat meal. Why do you have kiddush, what exactly is challah bread, do you have to use a special wine for Havdalah, and on and on until you don't actually get to rest on your day of rest.

As predicted, as soon as you walk in the door, Maggie looks up from her cleaning routine and starts to open her mouth before you've even put down your bag.

“Maggie, look.” You practiced this conversation in your head the whole way home. “I appreciate that you're taking an interest in my religion, I really do, but can we please not talk about kosher vampires today? I just want a nice, relaxing night, and I don't really feel like explaining the complexities of electricity on Shabbat to you.”

She smiles a sort of grimace at you. “I was actually going to ask whether you wanted salad with dinner or not, so...”

Great. That went well.

“Does it really annoy you that much?” she asks, a little bit of trepidation in her voice.

You wince at that. “I just...you have a lot of questions.”

“There's a lot to learn.”

“There is.” You go over to her and settle into her arms, letting your head rest on her chest. “I've been doing it my whole life, I forgot how overwhelming it can seem at first. When we were little, Becca and I used to sit in our room silently on Shabbat,. We told our parents we were going to go play, but we just sat on our beds, we were so confused by what we could and couldn't do.”

She starts to sway a little bit, rocking you back and forth. “That's kind of how I feel.”

“You know I don't expect you to keep it – any of it. I'm – you don't know how much it means to me that you even try.”

“I don't mind some of it; the cooking part is kind of annoying, and I hate how you won't kiss me after I eat bacon – hey!” You slap her lightly for that, but she just presses a kiss on top of your head. “I like the no electronics on Shabbat, because it's nice to just be with you, but I don't think I'll ever do the no driving or the no spending money, and I just don't want to accidentally do something that will somehow mess things up for you – ”

“First, I'm not nearly as strict as I used to be,” you start. “I think G-d is probably okay with us turning light switches on and off, and I don't think I'm going to be in trouble for picking pretzels out of the Chex Mix during Shabbat.” You used to have timers in your house to turn the lights on and off during Shabbat, and you marvel at how far you've come. “I really am glad you have an interest in my faith, but sometimes I – ”

“Don't want to be answering so many questions you feel like my teacher instead of my girlfriend?”

“Exactly.”

Maggie steps back a little bit so she can rest her forehead against yours. “Just one more question, and then I promise I'm done.”

You roll your eyes but nod indulgently. You regret that the second you see what sort of smirk she has on her face.

“Let's say I'm on my period, and I want you to – ”

You kiss her before she can get out the rest of that sentence.

 

 


	10. February 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everybody for all the feedback. Glad you're enjoying it. If anybody has any requests or things you'd like to see, let me know.

The night has settled over London, damp and chilled. Intermittently patters of rain tap on the glass, but the city is more or less still outside of that. Yellow light is soft on your face, the bed, not quite reaching the dark corners of the room. You have on thick wool socks, burrowed under three layers of blankets, propped up against the headboard. Sydney is cuddled between your body and the crook of your arm as you read The Alchemist out loud to her. You've taken to doing this in the winter evenings – in theory you're supposed to be taking turns, but more often than not you're the one doing the reading. This is mostly because Sydney tends to fall asleep in the middle of reading out loud, and she hates doing that with her glasses on.

You can see her starting to drift off, so you put the bookmark in (Sydney hates when you dog-ear the corners) and toss the book on the nightstand, but you don't change position after you switch off the light. One of your favorite things about dating Sydney is that she's smaller than you, can be tucked against you and held to you.

“Maggie?”

“Hmm?”

You can tell by her sleepy tone of voice that this is going to be another one of her strange musings. “When we have kids I want to move back to Canada.”

“When we have kids?” You have seen that future easily in daydreams, in Sydney's laugh and the way she holds newborns in the delivery room. You have skittered around the edges of this conversation with coy jokes and little hints for years, building ever since that one patient at Hope Zion asked if you wanted kids.

Sydney is so tired she just huffs at you and nods into your chest. “When. We both want them, and we moved across an ocean together. It's when.”

“Are you...proposing?”

“No, of course not. I expect you to propose.”

Your heart skips like a stone on the water. “I'll keep that in mind.” She taps her hand gently against your chest. “But you want to move back?”

“Becca's there, and she's pregnant again.. Declan's there. All your relatives,” she says. “Don't you want our kids growing up with that?”

“Well, sure.” You can't help but marvel at how she talks about it, like this version of your future is inevitable. And perhaps to her it is – she's explained the concept of beshert, a soulmate. But it's so casual, you feel a little uneasy. Not that you don't want this, it's just – sometimes you feel like you're looking at blue and she's seeing red...but in the end that never matters because eventually you'll both manage to see purple. That's what you've learned these years with her, and this will be the same, you are sure of it. You take a steadying breath and ask, “Why're you asking?”

“Listening to you read,” she mumbles. Her eyes are closed, fists bunched up in your shirt. You adjust the blankets to cover her shoulders and your torso. “I just...I saw it for a second, us like this but add a kid or two. And I didn't want them growing up without cousins.”

“I agree.” You almost feel like you should call your mother after this conversation, prepare her for the grandchildren she will be getting in the semi-near future. “I love you.”

She only has enough energy left to mumble out some unintelligible reply before you can feel her breathing start to even out, her hands relax just a little bit. You watch her for a few minutes, and you wonder a little bit about how you're going to propose now that it's been brought up, and you see a sunset looking out over some sort of beautiful landscape – maybe Italy, or Switzerland in the summer.

 

 

 


	11. October 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the prompts, I'm working on them. Here's a chapter I've had written for awhile but not yet posted.

Becca comes to visit when Aaron is about a year old. Her life has been almost as turbulent as yours: she and Eli have started going to a Conservative synagogue, resulting in a distance between her and your parents. You have received frequent emails about this, as though Becca deciding that a gay relationship isn't an abomination is something you were going to reverse. It's been nice, and difficult, rebuilding your relationship, but it's been more than worth it. Aaron is adorable, and he seems to have somehow inherited your red hair – you and Maggie have absolutely drunkenly scribbled genotypes on napkins, trying to figure out how it was passed on to Aaron.

You and Maggie drive to Heathrow to pick them up – you're renting a house sort of in the suburbs, in Edgware north of the city center. It's not too far of a commute for either of you, but it's much quieter than where you used to live. Becca and Eli may not be Orthodox anymore, but Becca still covers her hair (just with a kerchief now, not all the way) and Eli still wears a full beard and a yarmulke. Aaron has one too, with little Mickey Mouse heads patterned across it. He is instantly charmed by Maggie, or rather her new necklace – a gold and blue Star of David that she talked to you about before buying, to always have something to remind her of you throughout the day. You wouldn't call Maggie a convert, not by any means, but she's polite and respectful and has learned enough Yiddish to joke with the grandmas who hang out in front of her favorite deli.

Aaron rides happily in Maggie's arms the whole way to the car, babbling and tugging at the necklace, her ears, and trying to grab her on the nose. You walk with Becca ahead of them, Eli awkwardly hanging back by Maggie; you keep hearing him clear his throat.

You and Becca talk about her new kerchief-style hair covering, compare notes on your synagogues, coo over how sweet Aaron is tucked in the back seat between Eli and Maggie, share embarrassing stories about your significant others (which they indignantly try to refute), laugh about your failed attempts at cooking your grandmother's recipes.

It's late when you get back, so you have Maggie and Eli walk to the Chinese place a few blocks from your house while you and Becca set up everything Aaron will need. This is the first time anyone has used the guest bedroom since you and Maggie moved in, and you spent an hour trying to pick out sheets at the store before Maggie finally put an end to your insanity. It is still amazing to you that Becca is _here_ , with you – you'd always thought that once you broke it off with Hershel, told your parents, there would be no return to that community, with anyone. But Becca never gave up on you, even changed her beliefs and lifestyle to fit the fact that God isn't who she thought He was, that there's so much more to Him than you ever really learned in the Orthodox world.

When Eli and Maggie walk through the door both of them are laughing. They spread out the Chinese food on the kitchen table while you and Becca get plates and utensils in the kitchen – well, you get plates and utensils while Becca holds Aaron on her hip and tries to get his food ready.

Once you're settled on the couch, Becca puts Aaron on her lap because you didn't think to get a high-chair for him. It doesn't last, though, because he crawls right across Eli and then you and straight onto Maggie. She takes it in stride, lifting him high in the air and blowing raspberries on his stomach. Becca looks like she wants to tell Maggie to calm down, make him eat, but Eli puts his hand on her knee and kisses her on the cheek. You've never seen Becca back off that easily, relax like that. Like you, Becca has never been one for opening up and discussing feelings in-depth – when she married Eli two years ago, you'd been distant from your family, swallowed in guilt. You never spent much time with him, brushing him off as another one of the same type of men that your parents tried to throw at you over the years. Even during the pregnancy, the cancer, you spoke only a few words to him – he was quiet but steady, always holding Becca's hand. But Becca picked Eli, and it seems that she picked right.

The next day you go to the zoo, because, as Becca tells you while the two of you make breakfast, Eli lets her choose whatever they do on vacations, just so long as they visit the zoo. You like him a little more after hearing that.

Becca and Eli walk in front of you, Maggie pushing Aaron in his stroller. They fit neatly together, her head against his shoulder, and Maggie is telling you all of the bizarre, fascinating tree frog facts that she learned from him last night. There's a little guilt, when you realize that you'd never stopped to think about Eli being actually _good_ for Becca. Sure, you talked to her, before the wedding, told her to never, ever put up with him hurting her in any way, even if it wasn't physical. But you thought it would take time for her to love Eli, the way your parents always talk about marriage. It never occurred to you that Becca chose Eli because she was already in love with him.

And maybe she was, maybe she wasn't, but they're good for each other now. He wipes ice cream off her cheek, and she listens dutifully to him ramble about all of the amphibians you see. They lean on the railings of the exhibits, shoulder to shoulder. You and Maggie take Aaron for yourselves for awhile, and it makes your heart jump a bit when Becca tells him, “You're gonna go play with Aunt Sydney and Aunt Maggie for a bit.”

Maggie wants to go see the gorillas, so you stroll slowly down the path. It is late, but it's summer, and the sun has barely started to sink in the sky. You stop to sit on a bench, watch some very tiny monkeys swinging around the tree branches. When Aaron starts to whine, Maggie takes him out of the stroller and rocks him a little, letting him play with her necklace again.

“He really loves that.” You point to the Star of David twirling around Aaron's fingers.

“Genetic predisposition,” Maggie says. She switches to a higher pitched baby voice, something you've never heard her use before. “You like it, don't you little man? You like playing with shiny, dangling things? Maybe you're a monkey. A sneaky monkey. We'll have to build you a jungle gym for next time you visit, won't we?” Aaron gurgles something and claps his tiny hands.

“He really loves you, too,” you say. “You're good with him.”

“No, he's a baby, he'll like anyone.”

“Maggie, you know that's not how babies work.”

She shrugs and continues to play gently with Aaron; his little eyes are starting to flicker, and with all the excitement today, he never had his nap. Maggie whispers little things to him, strokes his hair, and holds him tight to her until he settles into sleep.

And, it's, well – Aaron is your sister's baby, but he has your hair. He could easily be yours; it's not so far of a stretch. Truly, honestly, it's not like you've ever consciously thought about kids with Maggie – it's nowhere close to the time – but seeing her hold Aaron, with his shock of red hair, just _does_ things to you. Abstractly you've always wanted kids, but you're at a point where you can imagine how they'd fit in – you and Maggie up late trying to quiet a screaming baby, coming home to find them coloring on bedroom walls, falling asleep on the couch as you read to them.

“What?” You must have been staring at Maggie, because she's looking at you with her little bemused smirk.

“Nothing.” You kiss her temple and look back at the monkeys. Becca and Eli will be here soon but for now, looking at Aaron asleep in Maggie's arms, you are content to pretend.

 

 


	12. April 2017 (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people asked for some more stuff during season five, so here it is. Hope you enjoy

Dawn invites you out for a double-date. It is...perhaps the most confusing thing anyone has ever said to you and, considering that you came out in an Orthodox community, that means a lot.

 

“Don't worry,” she said, “I know this great Italian place, totally kosher. My best friend from med school, her husband is Jewish, they go there all the time.”

 

You are not certain how aware Dawn is that there are different kinds of Jewish people and not all of them keep kosher, but she is...smiling the whole time she is talking to you, and if you didn't know better you'd believe that it might actually be...pleasant to spend time with Dawn, outside of work. Or at work. Or, really, at any time except in the operating room – Dawn, for everything else she is, is an excellent surgeon.

 

Anyway.

 

“No,” is what Maggie says the first time you tell her.

 

“Absolutely not,” is what she says when you try to explain.

 

“Fine,” is what she says grudgingly after you start kissing her neck and ears.

 

So this is how you end up across a dinner table from Zach and Dawn, dressed in business casual. Maggie keeps making significant eye contact with Zach, and Dawn is trying to tell you about the wine list, about this excellent Cabernet that she had in California while eating crackers under the sunset or something, you've honestly stopped paying attention because both Maggie and Zach are acting like children right now and why did you agree to this.

 

Dawn, mercifully, finishes up her little wine tirade by saying, “It's nice talking to you, Sydney, and I'm sure this would be even nicer if our significant others weren't kicking each other under the table like a couple of unruly toddlers.”

 

Zach at least has the decency to look a little chagrined, but Maggie just snorts into her hand.

 

“I don't know, Dawn, maybe we should just get another table,” you say, “give them their own children's table.”

 

“Okay, that's not fair,” Zach says.

 

“Yeah, we'll behave.” Maggie punctuates this sentence with a salute, and both she and Zach start laughing. You and Dawn share a look, and dinner goes a lot more smoothly after that. It is actually entertaining – Maggie spends a lot of time talking to Dawn about how to start a garden, and you listen to Zach talk about the summer when he and friends dared each other to, among other things: eat an entire jar of peanut butter mixed with an entire jar of pickles, jump off a roof onto a trampoline and then onto the ground, pelt each other with dodgeballs, and suck on entire lemons.

 

By the time it is over you are stumbling out of the restaurant into the street as Dawn finishes telling an honest-to-god joke. Maggie has her armed looped through yours, and you catch a glimpse of Dawn grabbing Zach's ass as they get into the cab.

 

This leaves you and Maggie standing in the street, no cab having been called, and clearly something in the air between you. It's been eleven days since the funeral, and you haven't spent a single night apart since. Which is fantastic, you absolutely can't get enough of everything that affords you – sleeping with Maggie, sleeping _with_ Maggie, listening to Maggie mumble in the middle of the night and gagging on the smell of the instant coffee she makes every morning (you don't drink coffee and, therefore, don't own a coffee maker). And every night you do this dance – is it appropriate to keep this up, to be basically shacking up with Maggie after three years of on-and-off whatever? Why wouldn't it be, though, right? You're an adult, you're both adults, and this is fine, it's fine, you can do what you like. But neither of you wants to talk about it, because of course you don't – because Maggie's already obviously expressed her conflicting emotions about moving too quickly with you, and you obviously don't want to bring up any of that because what if it scares her off or something, and – so here you are, again, on a curb, waiting.

 

It's not exactly warm out either.

 

“So...” Maggie starts, but then she doesn't seem to know what to say, so she just does that ridiculous eyebrow quirk thing and, yeah, that's all it takes.

 

Why does it matter that you've spent all your time together recently? You've never had the time before, and it's been given to you, a gift, and who are you to waste it? Who are you to take this time from Maggie, this gift from G-d, and let some petty little ideas of convention and fear ruin it? Maggie is...you have been waiting to be with her for three long years, so what does it matter if you're moving a little quickly now. It's not fast, it just...seems accelerated, because you're operating off such a long delay. And so what if your apartment is barely furnished, so what if your bed is absolutely way too tiny to fit both of you, so what if you are already so accustomed to the way she fits next to you – even in that ridiculous bed – that you don't really want to entertain the thought of sleeping alone.

 

“C'mon, no need to wait, we can walk to my apartment,” you say.

 

There is nothing quite like watching Maggie's slow spread all the way across her face. “Yeah?”

 

You nod, hand slipping easily into hers. You turn the corner, and you have never been so grateful for any gift.

 


	13. August 2017

This is all Mack's fault. Never mind that Maggie organized this, that Maggie went and bought all the supplies, that Maggie is currently sitting on the couch with a bowl of M'n'Ms.

You're blaming it all on Mack.

And you can't really complain, because Maggie goes to the synagogue with you every week and listens attentively when you ramble about medical literature and/or your neighbors' lawn gnomes. So you will suffer through an hour or two of... _Mario Kart_ , and then hopefully that will be the end of this experience.

“Ready?” she scoots over on the couch to accommodate you and hands you a controller. It has, in your personal opinion, an excessive amount of buttons.

“I thought I was but looking at this thing I'm not so sure.”

“Okay, well, it's not too hard,” Maggie says. “The control stick is direction, obviously, and the big green button is go, the red button is stop. These two little gray buttons are for throwing things at other people, and the buttons on top are for, like, sliding around corners, you know how they do in _Fast and Furious_?”

Maggie forced you to sit through three of those one rainy day before your attention span gave out and you'd climbed on top of her and, well, she was rather less interested in the movie after that. “Yes, I remember. When I want to go around turns without losing speed.”

“Exactly.” She kisses you on the cheek. “Okay, first you've gotta pick your people.”

“Um...” You are not so culturally deficient that you don't know who Mario is, but most of the other characters look completely unfamiliar. You recognize Yoshi and that giant ape with the barrels, but that's about it. “I guess I'll be this baby dinosaur thing and the...red turtle?”

“Baby Bowser and Koopa Paratroopa,” Maggie says.

“I can't believe you are such a closet nerd.”

“Sydney, we are _doctors_. We're already nerds.”

You scoff at her. “Please, we save lives. Knowing what a 'Loopa' is saves no one's life.”

“Koopa.”

“You,” you start, leaning over to kiss her, “are lucky you are cute.”

Maggie rolls her eyes, but you can see a little bit of a blush on the edges of her cheeks. “Anyway, no you have to pick a car.”

You choose the purple Corvette-looking car, and Maggie guides you to the track selection.

“Oh, Rainbow Road, how apt.” Shooting through space on a rainbow looks fun – a lot of the other tracks seem rather violent. This looks nice and easy.

“Yeah, I wouldn't do that if I were you. That's the hardest one.”

“Maggie, this is a game for _children_ ,” you say. “I think I can manage.”

You cannot, in fact, _manage_. It takes you twenty seconds to fall off for the first time. It takes you a full six minutes to finish three laps, and you come in the most distant of last places. Maggie spends the whole time trying to hide her laughter behind her hand, and you kiss her right as you cross the finish line to smother any sort of “I told you so.”

It goes...better after that. Maggie shows you how to throw things at people, which you have to admit is pretty fun. You play three more tracks before you find the jungle one. This one quickly becomes your favorite (and you placed sixth on your first try), so you have Maggie tell you the short-cut and how to use the items properly.

 

“Syd, you have to aim the green ones.”

“No, babe, don't – you gotta be careful with the bombs, you'll blow yourself up.”

“I think you put that banana there last lap.”

“Maggie, I am obviously not _trying_ to fall off the track, it just keeps happening.”

 

Eventually you win.

You _win_.

You eke out a victory against the giant ape and his mini-me, sliding across the finish line seconds before they do.

“Maggie.”

“Yes?” She has the awful, smug smile expression on her face, and of course you want to wipe it off, but it is also, inexplicably, so damn attractive on her.

“I won.”

“Yeah, and it only took you an hour.”

“An _hour_?” You would've guessed you'd only been playing for half an hour, forty minutes tops. But you look at your watch, and she is right.

Maggie takes the controller out of your hands and puts it on the coffee table. “You liked it.”

“It was alright.” She puts her hand on your thigh.

“Bullshit, you didn't even realize how much time had passed,” she says with a laugh. She moves your legs onto her lap, turning your body so you're facing her now. “You _liked_ it.”

“Did not.” She puts her hand on the back of your head, pulling you closer.

“Did so.” And she kisses you, sliding one hand up the back of your shirt, and it doesn't really matter whether or not you liked _Mario Kart_ (and you did, but you will never admit this to her), because you absolutely like _this_.

 


	14. December 2019

You show up to Declan's door with store-bought cookies and a Crock Pot of _kreplach_ and chicken soup – which Maggie cooked, and it is an endless source of amusement for her that she's a better Jewish cook than you are. It has also been the topic of many of your Skype sessions with Becca, because Eli is a better cook than she is.

“Sydney!” It's Krista who opens the door, looking all of her seven months pregnant. She is a very pretty woman, blonde and just about your height. She always wears big, colorful earrings when she's not working – on an oil rig off the coast. Last Hanukkah she sent you a menorah that she had hand-made and welded together. It's perfect, one of your favorite possessions, because it blends the old traditions with a more modern look.

You return her hug while Maggie goes off in search of Declan. “It's good to see you. How are you doing?”

“You know how pregnancy is,” Krista says. “Everything hurts all the time, I never know what I want to eat or do, I fall asleep standing up, and yet I'm still so in awe of this little miracle.” Krista waddles through to the kitchen with you, where Maggie and Declan are somehow already in a gummy bear fight while Leo scrambles around underneath them, picking up their fallen bullets and trying to shove them into his mouth. “Declan!” Krista swats him on the head as he's mid-throw, resulting in Maggie getting pegged hard in the cheek.

You reach down to pick up Leo, and he responds instantly with a joyous yell of “Aunt Sydney!”

“You two should really be more careful with your projectiles,” you say, Krista leaning against the counter and fixing both Declan and Maggie with a fierce glare. You wonder if this is something that comes with motherhood. You hope so.

“Let us live.” Maggie kisses you on the cheek. “We don't need them, right Leo?” She looks at him very seriously.

“Aunt Sydney is the best!” Leo says.

Maggie ruffles his hair and puts an arm around your waist. “You bet she is, kiddo.” She looks back over at Declan. “When's Mom getting here?”

“She's already here. Sort of. She went to the store to get more green beans.” Declan, you know, loves green beans more than any other food – Maggie used to steal cans of green beans in the middle of the night and hide them amongst her mountain of stuffed animals just to work him up.

There is a little bit of a cooler air that settles over the room at the mention of the twins' mom, and you know it's mostly to do with you. For whatever reason Catherine loves Krista, even though her job requires her to be away two weeks out of every month. She still hasn't warmed to you – and you're only sort of bitter about it, because you see Maggie every night and you even have fairly regular hours now and you spend every Saturday outside with her while she tends to her extremely large, ever-growing garden. But no. Catherine still resents you because you are a doctor, because you left Maggie before. It's fine. You don't really _need_ Catherine's approval.

It's fine.

Things go well after that, even when Catherine gets back. She hugs Maggie for a long time and then moves over to you, and it is a perfectly acceptable if not particularly warm hug. You and Krista volunteer to prepare and finish up the cooking while Maggie, Declan, and Catherine take Leo out in the snow. From the kitchen window you can see the four of them playing – Catherine is so different with Leo than she is with you or Krista, or even Declan and Maggie. She lights up, and you can see Maggie in her, which is a feat. Maggie doesn't really look like either of her parents, while, except for eye shape and a shade lighter skin and hair, Declan is the spitting image of his dad. Sometimes, though, when Catherine smiles, it's very clear that both Maggie and Declan got that particular gesture from their mother. You've even seen her do a more subtle version of Maggie's trademark eyebrow quirk.

You all sit down to watch “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” after a satisfying Christmas dinner. You and Catherine don't say much, letting mostly Leo carry the conversation with his endless questions about London, which Maggie fields. The couch only fits three adults so you sit in Maggie's dad's old leather armchair, half on the armrest and half on Maggie's lap. Leo makes it through the first half hour or so before passing out on top of Krista.

The conversation somehow turns to whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Claus had an arranged marriage, or how they even _met_ , and you make some lame joke like, “They probably both had overbearing Jewish moms, there's no getting out of that” and then Catherine just has to say –

“But there is, isn't there?” Catherine's Irish accent isn't always prominent in everyday speech, but you can hear the lilt of it in that sentence, so you brace yourself – “Weren't you engaged once? In that exact situation? You got out of it.” And of course the unsaid implication is _if you could get out of that you can get out of your relationship with my daughter_.

Maggie is the first to say something in your defense, as always, _b’syata d’shmaya_. “Mom, stop. That's none of your business, it happened a long time ago, and you know nothing about it.”

“I'm only trying to understand.”

“You're trying to blame her.”

Catherine's eyes flicker to you for a moment, as if debating how much to say. “Maggie, she _left_ you!”

“OK, well, we're going to put Leo to bed,” Declan says, springing up from the couch. He offers his hand to Krista. “See you in the morning.” Any good-byes from the three of you remaining are drowned out by the quick footsteps of Declan and Krista up the stairs.

Maggie grips you protectively around your waist, and it never ceases to amaze you how devoted she is to you; it's hard to believe that you once thought you were just an experiment, a charity case, someone she liked greatly as a friend and pitied enough to pretend to return romantic affections. But she has proved, time and time again and in _many_ different ways, that she is utterly taken by you. “I know she left. She left, and I stayed. She wasn't ready to stay still, and I was too afraid to move. But now we're not. We're in it for each other more than anything else.”

“Are you sure?”

You sort of want to yell at Catherine for talking about you like you aren't in the room, so you say, “Yes, I'm sure. Anywhere we go, we go together.”

Catherine lets out this strange noise that's not really anything you can codify, but it sounds extremely aggressive and derisive.

“ _Mom_.” Maggie is visibly upset now, using her free hand to play with her Star of David necklace. “How do you even know about her engagement? I never told you.”

“You told Declan.” There is a bit of hurt in her voice.

“Because I knew Declan would understand!” Maggie's voice raises in both pitch and volume. “You would never have thought about the whole picture, just like you're doing now. There is so much more to it, and you'll never know about it because you're never going to get past the fact that Sydney was engaged.” She sighs and looks at you. “We don't need this. Do you want to go to bed?”

You just nod, unsure of how to act in this situation. You can feel Catherine staring at you, and Maggie guides you up to the guest room – soon to be a bedroom for baby number two – without any words, only her hand pressing gently into you back. Once the door is closed, you take her face in your hands and kiss her cheeks, her nose, her jaw – for some reason this always makes her giggle, and even now there's no exception. She settles down a little bit and starts slowly unbuttoning your shirt. Her eyes meet yours, and you nod.

Tonight Maggie is slow and meticulous – she rarely lets you touch her the way she's touching you, and even then not for long. By the time she brings you to a slow climax she has kissed all of your skin, and you have to wipe away a few tears as she crawls back up your body. She whispers that she loves you, how proud of you she is into your shoulder as her fingers lazily draw across your stomach. Usually she tries to write things, but you've never been good at guessing what they are. Until now, safe with Maggie wrapped around, you didn't realize how much it hurt to have Catherine reduce one of the most traumatic experiences of your life to a weapon to be used against you. But it hadn't rocked Maggie. You have to take comfort in that.

 

You wake up a few hours later, Maggie's body flung away from yours except for an arm still haphazardly around your shoulders, with a great need for water. Your pajamas are in the suitcase, so you rummage around quietly in the dark for a few moments before stumbling out into the hallway. Everything is quiet, and neither Declan and Krista's room nor Leo's room where Catherine is sleeping have lights on. You're not certain what time it is.

The light in the kitchen is on, and you assume it's Krista, up with a late-night craving or looking for painkillers. But it's not. It's Catherine, in a bathrobe and pajamas, standing by the sink with a cup of tea and her eyes on the dark snow in Declan's backyard.

She turns around at the sound of your footsteps on the hardwood. “Sydney.”

“Catherine.” You rub at your arm, feeling small and like you are back in this same position with your own mother. “I just, um, came down for some water.”

“Suit yourself, love.” And then she turns back around to the window.

You can let a lot things go, but she is actively ignoring you now, and that can't stand. All of the things you've done, this should be nothing. “I've known I was gay since I was eleven or twelve.”

This gets her attention; she faces you and sips from her mug using both hands. Her expression doesn't change.

“Every day, since I was eleven or twelve, I had to live with knowing that I could never be considered whole and complete in the eyes of Judaism unless I married man. And that thought disgusted me. It still does. I don't...I don't even like to think about it. But I kept going. I went through medical school, and I thought that that would help, to focus on something else. And it did. I was fine, until I met your daughter.”

You pause, hoping that Catherine will say something. She is impossible to read, still drinking her tea. “I went seventeen years able to keep everything buried. Seventeen years. I never did anymore than look at a woman. I barely even did that. And then I kissed Maggie in an on-call room because I just couldn't _not_ do it. An entire lifetime of self-discipline, gone. And the risks? My entire family, my whole community, my whole life being taken away from me.”

“That seems like a lot to stake on a kiss,” Catherine finally says.

You relax a little bit after that, leaning against the wall. “It was. But I...Maggie told me how you met her dad.”

Catherine gives a warm laugh at that. “In Immigration of all places, fighting about him cutting me in line.”

“Maggie loves that story,” you say. “How you were yelling at each other one minute and the next he was asking you to dinner. Because there was something about you that overcame his reason, that overcame any reason. That's why I kissed her the first time. And the next few times after that. My engagement...it was a reaction to kissing her. I thought marriage would cure me, somehow, that G-d would make me as whole with my fiancee as in the five seconds I'd felt with Maggie.” You shrug. This is the most you've talked about Hershel and the engagement in years. “He was a good man. But he was still a man.”

There is a long silence here, during which Catherine puts down her cup. She seems to be weighing something in her mind, and you're inclined to let her talk for a little bit. “The first time you left wasn't so bad. She called and talked to me for awhile. She mentioned that you left. I figured she'd be fine. But when you went off to Israel...she called me every day for a month. Maggie and I don't have the best relationship, I know that, but she always calls whenever something bad happens. She never talks about what's bothering her, but I know. You almost wrecked her the second time.”

“I know.” It comes out as a whisper, because that's still a sore spot for you. If you'd only read her better, understood the depth of her feelings earlier, it would've been so different. But – “I wasn't ready. Not to be with her. It felt like we were circling each other for three years, waiting for it to be time. We were waiting for when the need to be with each other would outweigh the things in our lives that were keeping us apart. And for so long it didn't, and then it did.”

“How do you know it always will?” Catherine has dropped her crossed arms and just has her hands resting on the counters.

You think about this before answering, because maybe this is what has worried Catherine more than anything. Maybe she does see how much you truly love Maggie – really it would be odd if she couldn't – but she has a fear that one day those scales will flip, the same way her husband's did. So you decide to go with honesty. “I can't. Nobody can. Nobody Maggie could meet would be able to promise that. But I love her. I am in her life as long as she will have me. Even if the romance were to somehow end, even if, she's such a part of my life I don't want to be without her, not again.”

Catherine nods very slowly, once, twice, three times. “When I married Bao, I loved him very much. And when I divorced him, I loved him very much. Until the day he died I loved him very much, and I believe he loved me just as much. But that wasn't enough to make us happy.”

You pick your next words very carefully – this is a challenge. “Maggie and I don't just love each other; we _chose_ each other. At the end of the day Maggie ran after me, and I ran back to her. I know it's no guarantee, nothing is, but I'd choose her again. I _do_. I choose her every day.”

There is a tense silence. Catherine turns away from you and dumps the rest of her tea in the sink. She turns on the water, letting it fill the cup.

“She looks happy, when she's around you,” is what Catherine finally says.

“Thank you.”

Catherine leaves the kitchen with a bittersweet smirk on her face – it reminds you so much of Maggie. She hesitates for a split-second while passing you, then puts a hand on your shoulder before walking off.

This is...a lot. You touch the place where her hand was, and you wonder what has just happened. There is obviously still a long way to go with Catherine, and much of that way she'll have to walk alone; she hasn't quite reckoned with Bao and all the things he meant and did to her, with her, for her. But perhaps she will separate those things from you.

When you get back into bed, Maggie stirs and immediately rolls over to hug you. She wrinkles her nose. “You're not naked.”

“I went to the kitchen to get some water,” you say, smiling at her sleepy mumbling.

“You should be naked again.”

And as Christmas morning starts to make its way across the horizon, you slip in next to her – naked, as requested – with a lightness that seems to only come to you as you grow older.

 


End file.
